


Silent Lucidity

by itallstartedwithdefenestration



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, and did I mention angst, and slightly not-nice Dean and Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/pseuds/itallstartedwithdefenestration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Lucifer have settled into the domestic life. They're perfectly content together in California, in their apartment.</p>
<p>No one should be allowed to take that away from them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Lucidity

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a dream I had. Apparently my brain enjoys cooking up really awful scenarios in which Supernatural characters die (and stay dead) in their boyfriends' arms.
> 
> Edited May 16, 2013, when I _finally_ remembered about Stanford's actual location.

It's been years since Sam and Dean fought anything, years since they laid into any monsters with their knives or guns. Dean’s settled down with Cas in some quiet town off the map, and Sam’s back in California, getting his law degree, finishing what he started so long ago. 

The only difference is that now he’s _with_ someone, and that someone isn’t going to burn on a ceiling or turn into a blood-sucking villain or die in some freak accident any time soon. 

Sam’s someone is Lucifer. 

He’s not exactly sure how it happened himself, only that it did, not too many months after he and Dean decided to call it quits on the hunting grounds and try to start lives apart from each other. (Not that they don’t still get together, because they do—the only difference is that Sam rarely sees Cas, and Dean… well. He doesn’t know about Lucifer. But anyway. Doesn’t matter.) 

What Sam remembers is Lucifer showing up at his apartment one day, covered in blood and shaking uncontrollably. What Sam remembers is dragging Lucifer inside and shutting the door, because he’s never been heartless (except that one time, right after his first dip in Hell), and cleaning him off, helping him into dry clothes. What Sam remembers is setting him up on the couch with a blanket and a pillow and letting him sleep, just _sleep_ for days, and when he woke up, Sam didn’t ask questions, just gave him his cell number, told him where he went to school, where he worked, if there was an emergency. 

What Sam remembers is that night, about a month after Lucifer first arrived. He came home tired from Stanford, not knowing how he’d done on his latest exam, and Lucifer was waiting for him with an entire meal prepared, the television on low, playing ‘Rockford Files’ of all things. Sam laughed, asked Lucifer what was going on, was he pulling something, now that he had most of his strength back? _No, Sam, of course not,_ Lucifer had said, and Sam remembers that _tug_ at his chest, the way he _knew_ Lucifer was telling the truth, because he’d been his vessel, because there was still some vague connection between them, even though he’d gone back to using Nick. _Can’t I just be nice to you? Repay you?_

What Sam remembers is eating dinner with Lucifer, watching television with him, laughing in surprise every time he understood even the vaguest pop culture references they made. What he remembers is how afterwards, in the warmth of the apartment, with his stomach full of grilled chicken and broccoli, he’d felt it only natural to lean in and put his head on Lucifer’s shoulder, inhale his scent, electrifying and metallic and vaguely like something burning on ice. 

Sam kissed Lucifer that night, and he remembers the way it felt, like some tension wire between them had finally loosened up, uncoiled itself and vanished. His heart was pounding the entire time, his hands shaking as he tried to figure out where to put them, and Lucifer was the one who took their clothes off, guided him, strangely gentle the entire time, telling Sam _yes,_ asking for _more, please._

It’s been that way ever since, just the two of them in their apartment, and Sam can’t figure out why it took him this fucking long to get everything _right_ in his life. Lucifer helps him study (of all things!) and they alternate shopping, grocery runs, gasoline refills. It’s a weirdly domestic life, coming home and finding Lucifer standing over the kitchen sink, running water over the celery, but it’s not bad. Not when Sam gets to wrap his arms around his waist, kiss the side of his neck, nuzzle his hair where it curls softly against his skin. Not when Lucifer sings bad opera way too loudly in the shower and laughs when Sam walks in on him, invites him to join so that they end up singing duets. Not when weekends are the way they are, with Sam waking up late and Lucifer curling up with him on the couch and watching television all Saturday instead of getting _anything_ done ever. 

And Sam is happy, really _happy_ for the first time in his life. He thinks he’s going to burst open because of the swell he feels in his chest, like the goddamn ocean, every time he looks at Lucifer sitting across from him at a restaurant, or underneath him in their bed, or beside him in the shower, or draped over his chest on the floor by the fireplace. (He wants to call Dean and tell him _hey, you’re not the only one who got an angel,_ but he can’t. It’s been years since they fought demons, but Dean’s _always_ going to be on edge about this shit. Always. 

Sam cannot forget Amy, and what his brother did to her.) 

One afternoon, halfway through Sam’s finals, he gets a call from Dean, asking if they can meet up for lunch sometime soon because Dean and Cas are “going on a roadtrip” and the first place they’re hitting is the West Coast. 

“Yeah, sure,” Sam says, and starts to hang up. 

“Sammy, wait,” Dean says, and Sam pulls a few loose strands of his hair out of his face.

“What’s up, Dean?”

Dean hesitates, then, and Sam knows something’s wrong, and his chest constricts and his throat tightens and he starts to say _what_ again but he knows that Dean knows, and he’s not sure how Dean found out but he thinks he’s been incredibly stupid to assume Dean _wouldn’t._

Then it’s Cas on the phone, with that same heavy, monotonous voice Sam remembers from so many years ago. “Hello, Sam.”

“Hey,” Sam says, pressing his fingers together over the bridge of his nose.

“Listen,” Cas says, drawing out the words like they’re painful to say. “I’m sorry. I… knew for some time that you were living with Lucifer, and I tried to keep it from Dean, but… you know how he is.”

“Yeah.” Sam does that thing where you laugh when you’re trying not to cry. “I know.”

“Dean and I would like for you and Lucifer to come meet us—” there’s a pause, and a rustling sound, and Dean’s low voice telling Cas something, and then he finishes, “—meet us just outside the town. Off the Interstate.”

Sam swallows. “You can’t just leave us alone?” he says, angrily. 

Another pause, and then Dean’s back on. “Sammy,” he starts, and Sam wants to kill him. 

“You have fucked up enough of my relationships, Dean! I’m not going to let you do that to this one, okay? We’re _fine_ here. I’m almost through with my degree, Lucifer’s looking at getting a job, we’re not doing anything to anyone—”

“Sam, don’t,” Dean interrupts. “Look. I know you’re probably never going to speak to either me or Cas again after this—”

“ _Probably?”_

“—but it’s _Lucifer,_ man! And yeah, okay, he hasn’t killed in two years, but he’s going to kill again one day. You know that, Sammy. I know that.”

“No, you don’t, Dean,” Sam murmurs. There is a knife driving into his chest, and he clutches the kitchen counter, suddenly very aware of the close proximity of the floor. 

“Sam, I’m sorry,” Dean says. “But if you and Lucifer don’t come meet us where we said, we’re going to come to your place. And we’re going to kill him, and it won’t be as pretty, and it won’t be as quiet. So you choose. Either your boyfriend—or whatever the fuck he is—and you come where we want and get it over with fast, or we come to you. But I doubt you’ll like the second scenario nearly as much.” He hangs up before Sam can say anything else, and then Sam’s throwing his cell phone halfway across the room and sinking to the ground, slamming his fists against the carpet. 

(The carpet he and Lucifer picked out at Hobby Lobby ages ago, when they were having a sale on home décor and the two of them went in like a married couple, the tall long-haired man with slightly bent knees and his short, vaguely pudgy round-faced husband. They called themselves Keith Richards and Charlie Watts, and they spent almost five hundred dollars—at a sale!—on the carpet, just because Lucifer said he liked the way it matched Sam’s eyes.) 

When Lucifer comes home an hour later, carrying frozen vegetable pizza and a coupon to California Pizza Kitchen, he finds Sam still sitting on the floor, tears running down his cheeks. “Sam, what happened?” Lucifer asks, but Sam can’t tell him, and it’s _bad,_ and he hates himself. 

_Let’s run away,_ he wants to say. _Let’s move to Canada._ But Dean would find them there, too; he’d find them anywhere, because Cas would know where Lucifer was, and Sam cannot believe he’s been so _stupid._

So he takes Lucifer’s hand and drags himself to his feet and presses him against the wall and kisses him slowly, running his fingers through his hair and down his throat to where the pulse beats steadily against his skin, and Lucifer wraps his arms around Sam’s waist and kisses back, smiling against Sam’s lips.

“Hmm, eager, are we?” he murmurs, and Sam in response picks him up, bridal style, and carries him upstairs to their room, ignoring Lucifer’s soft _what about the pizza, love?_ He drops him on the bed

(the bed they picked out at Dillard’s with a coupon, the one they got an extra twenty-five percent off for because the clerk recognized Sam from Stanford, the one they almost broke the doorframes with trying to carry it in the apartment, the one they spent _hours_ trying to pick the best sheets for, the one they’ve spilled wine on and made love on and fought on and slept on and stayed in all day because they _could_ )

and presses kisses down his throat, lifting his shirt and kissing his chest, licking his nipples (Lucifer likes that, Sam discovered early on), biting the sharp angles of his hipbones (the most sensitive spots on his body). Lucifer’s stopped protesting long ago and is fisting his fingers in Sam’s long, soft hair, his head thrown back as Sam tugs his pants down, kissing his inner thigh before taking him in his mouth. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Lucifer says, and Sam feels a chill run down his spine at how that word sounds coming from his mouth, how hot and sensual and utterly, literally, _Satanic._

They don’t do much speaking for the rest of the night, not when Sam finishes Lucifer off, not when he drives him into the mattress, gripping his shoulders until they both think they’re going to pass out, not when Sam heads downstairs on shaking legs and fixes the pizza while Lucifer takes a quick shower and then they eat, feeding each other, laughing when the sauce gathers on their chins, sipping champagne from the fancy glasses Sam saves for rare occasions, like his birthday and New Year’s. 

He sees the question in Lucifer’s eyes— _what is all this_ —but he doesn’t ask, and Sam doesn’t tell. 

When they finally sleep, Sam spoons Lucifer, his long legs curled around Lucifer’s shorter ones, arms draped over his sides, nose pressed against the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. In his sleep, as always, Lucifer’s entire body relaxes, and Sam feels the faint brush of his wings against his bare chest. 

(Wings he’s seen before, once, when Lucifer told him that they couldn’t _really_ be soulmates unless Sam saw the most intimate part of him. Sam said something about how they’d slept together already plenty of times and he’d seen Lucifer’s ‘intimate parts’, and Lucifer had laughed and shoved him and muttered something about _crass humans_ and then his wings had appeared, suddenly, fleetingly. They were long and dark brown, almost black, and the feathers started out soft but grew coarser as they tapered to the edges. Sam wanted to touch them, but Lucifer wouldn’t let him, not while they were visible. When he tucked them away again, Sam’s eyes were wet though he couldn’t figure out why, and Lucifer said, _now you’ve seen me stripped down, Sam, now if you leave you can tell everyone you’ve seen my wings and they can come end me for it,_ and Sam had said, _why the hell would I do that?_

He remembers that was the first night Lucifer had ever looked him directly in the eye and said _I love you._ )

In the morning, they make toast and eggs for breakfast, and Sam eats with his head tucked against Lucifer’s shoulder, even though it makes it harder for him to chew that way. After, Lucifer says, “We should go to the cinema later; they’re showing some documentary on whales,” and Sam says:

“No, I have… a surprise for you, we have to drive a ways out of town for it,” and then he runs upstairs and is sick in the bathroom because he _hates_ lying, and he _hates_ what he’s doing, and he is _never_ going to forgive himself. Never. 

He tries to justify to himself that at least he’s allowing Lucifer to die in a humane way, but it doesn’t work, not when he thinks of Dean, and how fucked-up he really is in the head, how that’s the way it’s always been. 

Sam trembles the entire time they’re driving, and keeps one hand draped over Lucifer’s knee. The music on the radio is “Silent Lucidity” by Queensrÿche, and Sam lets two tears fall before wiping his eyes, ignoring the slightly concerned look Lucifer sends him. 

When they get there, Sam sees the Impala parked behind a tree ( _very subtle, Dean_ ) and he pulls off, dragging the car through gravel and over some dirt before killing the motor. 

“What are we doing here, Sam?” Lucifer asks as Sam exits the car, stretching his arms and yawning a little. “Is this a pit stop? Too much coffee this morning?”

Sam laughs shortly, the sound breaking over glass. “No, no,” he says. “This is the surprise. Get out, Luce.”

Lucifer raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything, just gets out (he _trusts_ Sam, and Sam wants to kill himself because of it) and they walk together a ways until Sam sees Dean and Cas, hiding behind some bushes. 

“Sam,” whines Lucifer. “What is this?”

There is an angel blade glinting in Dean’s right hand. Sam never thought he’d see one of those again, not after they killed Raphael. He swallows around an obstruction in his throat. He can’t see because of the tears swimming in his eyes. “It’s a freaking nature thing,” he says, and is proud of the way his voice barely even shakes. “You know how I am about this shit.”

“Oh my _god,_ ” Lucifer says, and he laughs, looking around. He’s facing Sam, and Sam won’t let him turn around, not as Dean sneaks up like a fucking professional ninja behind him, not when Dean lifts the knife, not when it flashes in the sunlight coming from overhead. “We could’ve just—” he starts, and the blade sinks into his flesh, in the middle of his spine, and Lucifer’s sentence drops off suddenly, like someone cut it in half. His eyes widen in surprise, and his lips form Sam’s name before the light flashes, blinding and brilliant behind his skin, and he’s falling to the ground, and Sam catches him, pulling the knife out so that it won’t go all the way through when Lucifer hits the dirt. He lays Lucifer’s head in his lap, smoothing his eyelids shut with trembling fingers, and throws the knife as far as he can, not caring where it lands.

“Sam,” Dean starts.

“If you ever speak to me again I will fucking kill you,” is all Sam says, his hatred boiling inside of him like demon blood, and he hears Dean and Cas’ footsteps crunching as they go, hears the Impala’s motor start up, hears the car drive off.

Lucifer’s wings flash over the ground in great, dark strokes, like an oil painting, and Sam fists his hands in his lover’s shirt and screams into the empty wind.


End file.
